


Funeral Blues

by lyonie17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Poetry, W. H. Auden - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-05
Updated: 2007-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonie17/pseuds/lyonie17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>W. H. Auden's poem, translated for Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral Blues

  
Something like ten minutes after 4:27 AM, he closed his cell, and sat down on the bloody ground to wait for the sirens. He was morbidly glad that the hunt had begun with the body of the farmer's sheepdog, so at least he didn't have to worry about it waking anyone up. They'd slept through the gunshots and screams already.

Perhaps three hours past 4:27 AM, he stumbled as he left the hospital, not having realized it would be light and bright outside. Everything identified, all papers filled out, all arrangements made, he stolidly did not think of the people he could not tell, friends either too far or too lawful to acknowledge. He was glad there had been no need to explain.

Three hours and five minutes after 4:27 AM he realized he didn't remember where the motel was, didn't have the key to the room, and had only one key to the Impala in his pocket, since he hadn't been driving.

Seven hours and thirty-three minutes past 4:27 AM Jack wasn't helping. Jimmy was gone. José had been gone since the werewolf five days ago. Eighteen hours and thirty-three minutes past 4:27 AM passed without note.

Twenty-seven hours after 4:27 AM, when he went to pay for another day on the room he'd finally found from the receipt in the extra wallet, his voice cracked and stuttered when he realized that his signature wasn't on the original check-in.

Fifty-one hours past 4:27 AM, cassette after cassette was tried, found wanting, and flung out the Impala window. No one had the right tune or the correct lyric, the empty seat beside him agreed.

Sixty-six hours after 4:27 AM, on a bridge he thought might be high enough, the cloud cover was as close to comforting as anything could be. New moon or not, he wanted no audience.  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Funeral Blues [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/380861) by [tinypinkmouse_podfic (tinypinkmouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypinkmouse/pseuds/tinypinkmouse_podfic)




End file.
